Scary.

“What are you supposed to be?”

I stood there wearing my mom’s scrubs with fake blood strewn about.

“A dead nurse.”

A few years before, they stuck me in a high school band uniform, Q-tip hat and all. Ta-dah—what every child aspires to be: an acne-ridden teenager.


Oh, Halloween. What a mile marker you have become in my life. The winds of change that are your late 20s begin to roll in and you’re left feeling like Alfred Hitchcock in a movie theater that’s showing Insidious. Here’s how things change:

· Your digestive system revolts. It’s like I woke up one day and my intestines were like, “Hey. You. Remember how you used to eat cat food out of the garage when you were 4? Here’s looking at you, kid.” Taco Bell is now your mortal enemy, created for the quick demise of any part of your body that has the potential to mortify you. And all that candy? Just say: “Trick or Treat, smell my feet, mix some Miralax with my drink."

· Candy is freakin’ expensive. I’m sorry. But I worked for 3 hours to pay for all this candy. Your kid is going to have to do better than a camo shirt and a Sharpie-d beard to get two Snickers bars. That’s chocolate gold. Here’s some Smarties.

· You realize you have no idea who’s famous anymore. Hannah Montana has been my go-to kid reference for years. That dream just sailed away on a wrecking ball and the Jonas brothers broke up (how do brothers break up?) Now I have to study up before tonight. Do they still watch Monster High?

· Farm animals are the new fishnet. When you’re 27, most everyone has thankfully abandoned the desire to be a promiscuous public servant for the holiday. Maybe the sexy cop costume worked because now you could pretty much sing your newsfeed to the tune of “Old MacDonald.” And on that farm he had a baby sheep, a baby cow, a baby chick, E-I-E-I-Ooooooh, I need to Instagram another picture of my kid.

Happy Halloween, boys and ghouls. I’ve always wanted to say that in a creepy voice. There you have it.

New Path

I assure you that I am in a much better place than the last time I blogged. A stomach virus has a way of transforming you into your most vulnerable self; you feel like you’ve been strapped onto a fair ride for three days straight and everything that’s going wrong in your life flashes before your eyes while you smile and try not to throw up on the person sitting next to you.

I’ve had some time post-bathroom breakdown to ask myself some questions. The uncertainty that is life often makes those rhetorical questions—left to float through my mind with no definite answers. But questions are a step up from complacency, a stepping stone from mediocrity; they are a cry to emerge from the depths of indecision and land on a path of direction.

I haven’t established much, but this is what I have determined:

1. I want to give writing a shot—a real shot. Writing has unfortunately always been that first love I never could quite get over; I would try to convince myself that I could learn to love banking and other professions, but any spare moment I had was spent scribbling article ideas on a post-it note. I always felt like I was cheating on my spreadsheets when I slipped torn-off news headlines into my purse for later. But sometimes where you started is right where you need to be. Here’s to starting some projects.

2. I want to take the reins. There is absolutely nothing wrong with being someone’s assistant; I have served dutifully in this role for several years. There were years I served as a respected member of a team; there were years when I squeak-proofed 87 chairs; there were years when I daily mopped up an appetizing mixture of hotdogs and slush from a cafeteria floor that had been peed on. While they are a collection of experiences that have shaped who I am immeasurably, I am ready to explore a new character. In the movie, “The Holiday,” cute old man Arthur says something that has always resonated with me: “Iris, in the movies, we have leading ladies and we have the best friend. You, I can tell, are the leading lady, but for some reason, you're behaving like the best friend.” Ouch. Here’s to finally being the leading lady.

3. I want to invest more time. I have been guilty of hiding my talents under the cloak of fatigue; I have let my professional failure seep its way into the crevices of my everyday life. I wrote the Christmas play for church this year and have recently started teaching Bible class again; amidst the Kool-Aid stained faces, I saw a mirror—a mirror that revealed to me that God has never once sent me a rejection letter; but I had sure sent him a few. Here’s to saying yes to the job.

4. I want to learn new things. I want to try my hand at couponing. I want to learn to cook. I want to spend more time reading. I want to take more walks. I thought I would start with those. Let’s not get too crazy now, people.

5. I want to be selfish—the good kind. I want to go on a trip with Justin. I want to go to IHOP at midnight. I want to watch him eat Ramen out of a mixing bowl for a little longer without lecturing him about his health. I will take the children hints in stride and sleep an extra 30 minutes in spite.

All this isn’t to say that I won’t have my occasional moments of self-doubt; that I’m this gung-ho woman on a mission who won’t stop until I’m on the Best-Seller’s list.

But I do know that I will be OK; and that this is a time of quiet for me to listen and consider my next course of action. I wasn’t afforded this opportunity by choice, but I’m going to use it to its full advantage. So here’s to that.

Fine.

"I'm fine."
I am convinced that this is the lie that is told the most on a daily basis; I am convinced this is the lie we tell ourselves more than any other.
This is the lie that I have unknowingly been telling for the past month.
It's just a job. Hey, maybe I can just stay at home and write. Everyone else thinks I should start popping out some babies--I could do that. I am 27 after all.
I listened stoically to everyone else's worries; I watched as friends packed up their offices for the last time. No tears. I even put on this front of, "I think I'm going to enjoy staying at home for a while; may even start up the Ray clan."
I rock at this. All my counselor sessions worked. I have got this together. 
But that's where I was wrong. Fast forward to Sunday.
We got a new puppy [more on that another time]; the next day I got a stomach bug that I have been fighting all week. I sat on my knees in the bathroom and I lost it. I called my mom and talked in one of those I-can't-breathe cries that she probably hasn't heard since I got dumped in college. It went something like this:
"Mom, I bought a dog and I don't know why I did that. I'm afraid she's going to change Fiona. I love Fiona. I feel like she's trying to fill this void. I have so many voids in my life right now. I lost my job. And I'm losing my friends. And everyone wants me to have babies. And I don't know if I'm ready to have babies. All my friends have babies. How can I have babies if I can't even handle a second puppy? I can't stay at home and just write. I just can't."
Yeah. It wasn't pretty. And it was pretty incoherent. But it opened my eyes.
It's OK to mourn a job; there's nothing shameful about that. It's a part of you; it's who you are 80% of your day. You will make jokes; others will say they're practicing "Would you like fries with that?" People will walk by and say things like, 'Ya'll hang in there now!" with phony laughter free of charge.
But behind all the "fine"s is a hurt I have never known before; it is truly its own type of loss. It's hard to explain; and it almost makes you feel selfish because you are grieving something intangible; something that doesn't get a memorial or flowers.
I'm a little late to this part of the game; many others have already dealt in their own ways. But I needed to start the healing process. While I wouldn't have necessarily chosen the cold bathroom floor while vomiting, God knows that sickness is the only time I am pathetic enough to be transparent and real.
And to realize that admitting you're not "fine" is the first step in actually being that way.

What's Your Excuse?

Everyone should have a “Hey, you should read this” friend. I have one. And we send each other links sporadically and discuss them throughout the day. On our off days, we just send each other screenshots of ridiculous Facebook statuses (No one is safe…)

It’s like the grown-up version of SnapChat. But anyway, she sends me this one today. Take a quick look—it’s not long and you’ll get the gist of what I’m talking about in this entry.

http://www.today.com/moms/i-just-make-it-priority-fit-mom-viral-photo-speaks-8C11410696

I’m not going to pick a team on this one, surprisingly. The stretch marks streaking down my leg like a highway stripe are crying out for me to lash out on this woman like so many others have done. I haven’t even had a baby body to recover from yet and I was like, “Oh.No.She.Didn’t.”

But I will give her one thing. She openly admits that she makes it a priority. I much prefer this to celebrities who always claim that they “despise working out” and “eat pizza like all the time.” Right. And my favorite dessert is kale.

I haven’t always been so lenient. I haven’t always been so kind. My natural inclination—like so many others—is to fire back with criticism and hidden jealousy. I have been guilty of seeing women in shape on my newsfeed and making my own assumptions about their lives. And I’m sure they’ve even looked at me on occasion and wondered what happened to the chick who used to run down a basketball court multiple times without passing out.

But what it really boils down to is priorities. And everyone has them. They’re all different; they’re all shaped by our personalities, molded by our surroundings. They change.

And you know what?

It’s OK.

I do the best I can; I’ve actually lost 8 pounds since last month (that’s a bowling ball, ya’ll). But I have stopped trying to set these unattainable goals. I’ve stopped letting other people’s gym selfies get under my skin (well, except you, lady-who-wouldn’t-know-a-muffin-top-if-a-real-one-hit-you-in-the-face).

I have made my choice though; and that choice is spending some extra time in bed every morning with my husband and dog; to instead blot light concealer on the sides of my nose and pretend it makes my face look skinnier. Yeah, I read that. I work out when I can, but I won’t turn away a last minute dinner with a friend to get 100 more crunches in. Sometimes I want a Taco Bell taco so bad that I will work out 30 minutes so I can come out even on my iPhone calorie
demoncounter.

But some people choose differently; some people wake up and run before the crack of dawn. Some people find that a vigorous workout lends itself to becoming a better friend, wife, and mother. To others, it’s therapy.

And that’s fine.

But we have to stop asking people “What’s your excuse?” and instead inquire “What’s your story?” Because until you know someone’s priorities, their struggles, their stories, you have no right to judge their excuses.

Shut it Down.

Judging by the whole government shutdown thing, I’m guessing there’s not much we can all agree on right now. While making light of a serious situation isn’t always popular, it’s kind of what I do.

So here are a few things many of us can harmoniously see eye to eye about. Several things I wish would have shut down in lieu of national parks and important programs:

· Letters to Miley Cyrus. I am still seeing these pop up on online news sites and opinion columns. It’s time to get a wrecking ball (sans nudist colony pop star) and demolish these once and for all. And don’t even start singing “We Can’t Stop.” Because you can.

· Middle-aged women up in arms about who’s playing Christian Grey. I’m sorry, lady. But you wear crocs. And often times a blue sweat suit with two varying shades of blue. I can’t believe Hollywood was so off the mark from your personal fantasy world.

· Hashtags as long as the alphabet. I hate all hashtags equally. Believe me. But I ask that you enable this little test: If the removal of a pound sign makes it an unbearable run-on sentence, ditch the hashtag and make it a caption instead. #sohappythatmyfamilyisinfromtexas #hadareallybaddayhopetomorrowisbetter

· The Google Maps Selfie. This is the evolution of the Facebook “check in.” Now people not only want us to know where they are, they want us to know what they look like where they are. “Just worked out”—sweaty face selfie. “In the car”—selfie where you can see my backseat. “Eating sushi”—throwing down the deuce symbol with my chopsticks, baby. Just stop.

· Michelle Duggar. Working on kid numero 20. I don’t think I have to explain why a shutdown needs to happen here.

· Obama Impeachment Petitions. If I told you social media was nowhere in the Constitution, would it make the madness stop? What if I let you keep one gun?

· The Walking Dead App. If I’m not a fan of selfies, I surely don’t want to see your face all rotted and covered in maggots. Spare me. Shut it down.

· Taylor Swift’s terrible analogies. “Corey’s eyes are like a jungle, he smiles, it’s like the radio.” This girl has sold millions of albums based on her unlucky love life. Perhaps if we didn’t tell people they smirked like an inanimate object, our success rate would skyrocket.

So Congress, bring back the national parks, bring back the zoos, bring back offices full of pleasant, happy-to-serve-you government employees—and get to work on shutting down things people won’t actually miss.

Bell Tower Blues

“I’m not superstitious,” I announced my freshmen year of college. I booked it under the bell tower alone, listening to a few snickers from girls who thought this doomed me to singlehood at a small, private Christian university.

Fast forward to my senior year. I would see couples lying on the front lawn, intertwined like the chord of three strands in Ecclesiastes. I would glare at the bell tower and think, “Maybe I should have been superstitious.”

I even prolonged my chances by attending graduate school, which left me in the dire predicament of being both unmarried and overqualified for any kind of career. At this point, I was a can of gasoline and a match short of telling the bell tower what I really thought.

I drudge through these times once more because I was reminded—via Buzzfeed yesterday—just how prevalent these thoughts were in my mind.

Facebook conducted a study that concluded that nearly one-third of all married people on Facebook attended the same college. Guess what itsy bitsy college appeared on this list? Yep. My alma mater.

With just a few simple maps, my suspicions were confirmed: The hysteria that I had built up in my head wasn’t imagined. I wasn’t just picturing myself in a less exciting version of “The Bachelor.”

I have to laugh now because the bell tower really did me a favor. I was spared the consequences of my misguided, immature decisions; I was given the ability to see what I really needed rather than jumping headfirst into an undeveloped version of my happy ending.

Why was I so misguided?
· My view of a Christian leader was flawed. The poor dudes didn’t stand a chance. If they led a song during chapel, if they spoke up in Bible class, if they passed that communion tray with the finesse of a point guard, they were perfect for me. Take into consideration that hundreds of guys did this on a weekly basis and you have the makings for some woe-is-me’s. So many Christian guys. And they all act like I have leprosy. When this superficiality finally wore off, I was able to see a man (from a public university of all places- gasp!) who taught guitar lessons to little kids from church, who had old ladies doting over him. And I began to see a heart and not a checklist.

· I focused too much on being led and not leading. Before someone throws me into the fiery pit of submission verses, let me say: I very much feel that the husband should lead his wife and children. This does not excuse, however, the years that I sat on my couch—never cracking open a Bible—waiting for this George Clooney lookalike televangelist to launch me into a relationship with God. I guess I thought holding his hand would—through osmosis—send me into a thousand Hallelujahs. It doesn’t work that way. Does Justin sit me down every night and lead us in a Bible study? No. But you know what? I often stuff my face before I say, “Let’s pray.” It goes both ways.

· I wanted to be Mother Teresa. When the pew scouting became increasingly unsuccessful, I started on another project: Find a fixer upper. I couldn’t afford the flight to Africa so I suppose finding a bad boy was the logical next step. Turns out your cheesy camp counselor was right—it’s easier to pull someone off the folding chair than to pull them up there with you. And boy did I tumble off the folding chair. I once harped at my mother for not liking a particular person. She looked at me straight in the face and said, “I have never said I didn’t like him. You are projecting that on me because you are too afraid to admit that you don’t like him.” Touché. Operation aborted.

· I refused to admit that I cared. The worst part about all of these things is the ferocious denial I released on anyone who dared to mention marriage. I stalked men who led my favorite hymns while simultaneously judging girls who had the audacity to think they had to leave college married. I turned into this faux career woman who was too prideful to admit that I cared; that I wanted to be married; that I was hurt that I spent weekends eating half of a Pizza Pro pizza within the confines of my bunk bed. What is so wrong with just not having an explanation? Why do we feel the need to explain away our lives? It’s OK to care.

I’m not going to end this by saying, “Keep your head up, ladies, your time will come.” First, because I hated this and every other cliché spouted at me during the “Bell Tower period.” Second, because it implies that your life doesn’t begin until love happens—which couldn’t be farther from the truth.

Don’t be afraid to care, but also don’t fear a period of your life when you don’t care. It is during that time that fake beliefs and mistaken assumptions can take a hike back to that bell tower where they belong.

And life (and sometimes love) will happen when you least expect it. (You didn’t think you’d get away without one cheap shot cliché, did you?)

Normal.

I sat in the boardroom. I heard the words that many before me had heard; worst case scenarios, a final date of December 6^th; the culmination of months of speculation. I saw the faces of friends who had been coworkers since I was in middle school become painted with the realization of the looming separation.
But I sat there; engulfed in this haze that has recently become my new normal; perhaps the same haze that overtook my body when I slung myself on top of a pipe that sprayed our kitchen a few weekends ago. My fear that I lack motherly instincts slightly faded as I took the water’s beating until Justin could get the water turned off. Now that’s a woman who loves her kitchen floor.
It has been one thing after another. And amidst all the ugly that is becoming an adult, there has been some beauty too: the beauty that occurs when you feel like you have taken the reins of your own life; your own marriage; the satisfaction you feel when you have been initiated into the club of other adults who are on a runaway train filled with crappy appliances and ants in their cabinets.
You accidentally buy an oversized fridge on a whim after your old one bites the dust; you chainsaw away at your top cabinet until it fits. And such is life. You make it fit. You make it work.
And you look at this man; this man who you tried to write off because he was a youngster with weird musical taste-- and you realize your naivety. You realize just how little you knew about what you needed to sort out adulthood. And here’s a hint: You don’t need a guy that runs through an airport and makes you miss your plane. You need a guy who understands the importance of having an entire fridge drawer dedicated to cheese.
You want to know what else you don't want anymore, sister friends?

1. A Man Standing at Your Doorstep. He’s also usually holding some stuffed animal or other item you don’t need. Throw in some rain and you have enough precipitation to complete the female fantasy. Scratch that wet dog business. A real man comes barreling through the backdoor carrying a half-gallon of milk, your monthly crazy pills and a box of Tampax. Love.

2. A Man Running Through the Airport. For the self-conscious female, the last thing I need in my adult life is a man making a scene near my gate. Plus, I paid a lot of money for this ticket and I don’t want to try to book another flight because you watched one too many Garry Marshall films. When I’m in the butt-to-butt traffic that is the Wal-Mart checkout line and realize I forgot cornstarch, I need a useful sprinter that can hit the baking aisle before Beatrice scans the last item in slow motion. Now that’s an Olympian worth aspiring to.

3. A Man Who Dances with You in the Street. You can thank Noah from “The Notebook” for this gem. Now that one of my favorite hobbies doesn’t include playing a game of Frogger on Stadium, I appreciate a different kind of jig. He’s going to kill me for including this—but he’s out of town so I’m feeling brave. If I am in one of my “zones” or appear to be getting too serious, Justin will begin doing this dance in my line of vision to see how long it takes me to notice. It has been a year and a half and I burst into laughter every time. Imagine arthritic Granny meets belly dancer.

4. A Man Who Uses Clichés. I’ll never forget when he said it. I was sitting there holding the dog in the car and he looked at me and said, “You know, you’re kind of like a dachshund. You’ve got a really long back and short little legs.” Um thanks? These are the kinds of compliments you will receive when you reach the comfort stage of a relationship. And though you’ll roll your eyes at your random Romeo, you will stare at your back in the mirror that night and wonder what that even means.

Marriage and adulthood look a whole lot different than what I had in my head in college. Contrary to Pinterest belief, not everything is Pumpkin Spice all the time. Sometimes life’s a plain pound cake; sometimes it’s a nasty fruitcake; sometimes it’s a pan of Funfetti (Life’s a box of chocolates was already taken).

But one of the positives I have found is that all the things that don’t matter fade away; they disappear into the fog of naivety from which they came. And somehow, somehow you are able to gain just enough strength to deal with a situation at a time. And when you feel like you don’t have what it takes, your true self kicks in and takes the grenade…or the volcanic kitchen pipe.